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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26379451">so hold me until it sleeps</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/aluinihi/pseuds/aluinihi'>aluinihi</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>and the dirt still stains me [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Character Study, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hurt No Comfort, Implied/Referenced Underage Drinking, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, M/M</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 06:53:31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,922</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26379451</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/aluinihi/pseuds/aluinihi</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>And isn't it sad that he has to drink alone? Because Ed doesn't like it, and Riza left, and the only one who Roy could trust with his sluggish mind has been six feet under for quite a while now.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Edward Elric/Roy Mustang, Maes Hughes &amp; Roy Mustang</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>and the dirt still stains me [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1737529</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>44</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>so hold me until it sleeps</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Hello~ <br/>This was requested by <a href="https://twitter.com/p0intmade">@p0intmade</a>! Thank you for the support, my dude! It makes me happy to know people like this series...</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Roy's kitchen has been having this issue with ants.</p>
<p>Perhaps it's not bad enough to be called an <em>issue</em>, and since it's not exactly inconvenient he hasn't even bothered to call any professionals to get rid of it. The little beasts like to climb on his counter table, to pad close to the small crack on the juncture of the wall and the tabletop, and Roy has gone through the trouble of making sure the surface is always clean and without any traces of food but they keep coming. In the past weeks, Roy has become used to them. It's not like they are the type that stings. All they do is sometimes stray from the customary path, getting too close to Roy to inevitably be squashed under his thumb.</p>
<p><em>The last time Ed came over</em>, he recalls, <em>he sat on the stool closest to the wall.</em> Roy sat beside him, watching as he massacred the ants one by one, chatting almost mindlessly about some experiment by some alchemist that had been disproved by some other — Roy remembers the gist of it, and also remembers the sensation of Ed's wet hair against his fingers, remembers the soft pressure of Ed's fingers in <em>his</em> wet hair as he half-heartedly mocked Roy's affection. Roy remembers telling him the ants would go after him for revenge and the combo of chuckle and eye-roll that inspired. Roy remembers… a good number of things, but it had been no more than a week ago so it's nothing remarkable.</p>
<p>A solitary ant saunters around his glass and Roy watches it with detached amusement. The ice pack leaves the bruise on his cheek so he can wave it over the little thing, watch as a few droplets of water spill on the tabletop — one, two, three, then the fourth hits its target. The tiny legs scramble to find purchase on dry land but Roy squeezes the pack and so a thin stream drips down forms a puddle about the size of a coin. The ant is as good as dead. He presses the ice to his face again and waits.</p>
<p>He doesn't count, but it can't be more than a minute. The ant goes still and Roy rubs his sleeve on the counter to dry it.</p>
<p>Tea wasn't bitter enough to wash away the pungent taste in his mouth after Riza left. He had chugged it down like it didn't burn his tongue and since that burn didn't make much difference, he opted for the other kind.</p>
<p>It's his fifth glass. Or sixth. It probably isn't the seventh, though Roy has had enough to get used to the sweet smell of hazelnut, enough that he doesn't waste his time noticing the rich flavor of the liquor or how it feels like velvet on his tongue. Whichever glass it is, the expensive drink has become nothing but alcohol.</p>
<p>He takes a swig. Edward has sipped this same brand once, weeks before Roy could even entertain the idea of taking him as a lover, but it had been some kind of turning point in their relationship in one way or another — the entirety of the past year has been a turning point actually, and so is everything that Ed does — with his eyes half-closed and his lips touching the rim of the glass as if it would break, and the furrow of his brows and the crinkle of his nose as he assessed the taste. He doesn't like it, Roy knows. He also doesn't like it when Roy drinks.</p>
<p>"God," he breathes out, "what am I doing?"</p>
<p><em>A week </em>sounds like a long time somehow. An awfully long time, both to plan and to come up with excuses, and Roy is convinced he would have appreciated it if Riza had said <em>now</em>.</p>
<p><em>Call him and tell him how it is</em>, she should have said, <em>while I stand right here so you can pin all the blame on me.</em></p>
<p>But Riza left and Roy is alone — and isn't it sad that he has to drink alone? Because Ed doesn't like it, and Riza left, and the only one who Roy could trust with his sluggish mind has been six feet under for quite a while now.</p>
<p>Refilling his glass absentmindedly, Roy wonders if he could even trust Maes Hughes with the recent developments of his life.</p>
<p>The sixth or seventh drink is knocked back so fast it is tasteless. Just a quick burn on the tongue then warmth spreading down his throat and chest, and it is over just like that. Precise and purposeful, just the means to an end. He pours more liquor in his glass, raises it, and his head falls forward with the tug of its own weight and gravity.</p>
<p>"Life is too short not to toast for the dead, I suppose. Toast <em>with</em> the dead, whatever."</p>
<p>He drains the liquid in a few large gulps. Then he sets the glass back as soundlessly as possible.</p>
<p>"I don't know if you've heard," he says to his empty kitchen, "but I'm fucking my teenaged subordinate."</p>
<p>The words have something odd about them. They come from his own mouth, Roy is pretty sure of that, but the way his lips move is strange and unnatural, as if there is a pair of hands moving his mouth to mold each sound into a confession. It takes him a few seconds to understand why.</p>
<p>Maes wouldn't need him to confess. Roy had never had to worry about spilling his secrets in drunken stupors because Maes had an uncanny ability to figure everything out on his own. He would come to Roy with a compilation of files: when he and Edward started meeting outside of the workspace, at which hours Edward prefers to come over, the list of books Edward has borrowed, how each of them likes their coffee in the morning, and why Roy has been hesitating to send him in missions outside of Central. Maes would have their story mapped and written, and simply pull it out of his pocket to show it to Roy like a family photograph and say <em>I know</em>.</p>
<p>And unlike Riza, he would <em>really</em> know.</p>
<p>"I need to puke." He does not. Either way, he covers his mouth with a hand in reassurance. The one time Roy vomited in front of Maes was after too many bottles of wine and too many glasses of whiskey, and, frankly, he didn't get that much sympathy. He can't expect even a modicum of it now.</p>
<p>A shrieking sound comes from down the hallway. Hysterical screeching, ear-piercing, distressing. The phone is ringing.</p>
<p><em>Edward</em>.</p>
<p>(A twinge of guilt in his chest because once in this lifetime when Roy heard the phone wherever he was he would think of <em>Maes Hughes</em> — and now he is not even sure if the voice he remembers is Maes' or a fabrication of his grief-addled mind.)</p>
<p>There is nobody else in the house tonight yet Roy hesitates. He feels observed, intruded upon; somewhere in the kitchen, a pair of (<em>green</em>) eyes are hidden, watching him with the clinical scrutiny of a detective who wants to hide his inner bias. The phone rings twice, thrice, and thankfully by the fourth Roy has grounded himself enough to stand up and pick up the call.</p>
<p>He flops down on the couch, head lolling back onto the backrest because he is tired of holding it up. "Mustang," he says into the receiver. Or groans, or sighs, or something else that doesn't sound as composed as he had hoped for.</p>
<p>"<em>Hey</em>," he greets listlessly. "<em>Are you drunk?</em>"</p>
<p>Edward doesn't need to announce himself because he never does. He is the only one to call Roy's personal phone at the most socially inappropriate hours — five in the morning, or around midnight, or when Roy is hitting rock-bottom and thus unable to keep his selfish whims in check.</p>
<p>"Good evening, Edward." He wills himself to smile, to turn the slur of his voice into the provocative purr that usually triggers red cheeks and scowls. "To what do I owe the pleasure of this late-night call?"</p>
<p>"<em>Shit, you are.</em>"</p>
<p>"Not as much as you think, probably. I walked from the kitchen to the living room just fine."</p>
<p>There is a sudden burst of static on the other end of the line and Roy can picture him standing by a payphone, sighing loud enough to broadcast his annoyance to its target. "<em>Congratulations. Add that to your impressive list of accomplishments</em>."</p>
<p>"Will do." Right next to <em>mass murder</em> and <em>child molestation</em>.</p>
<p>A beat of silence. Another static-tinged sigh.</p>
<p>"<em>I was thinking of passing by</em>."</p>
<p>Roy bites back a wince and swallows down a <em>please</em> — if Edward mentioned it means he has just reconsidered it. "That's up to you."</p>
<p>The only time Edward saw him drunk, Roy talked more than thought and ended up with his hands where they shouldn't be — and though Edward also had his hands in not-so-appropriate places and seemed very intent on keeping them there, he has kept his distance whenever there is an excess of alcohol. Maybe it's for the best. Roy has worse things to tell him after these few months they have been together.</p>
<p>"<em>I know.</em>"</p>
<p>"I could cook us dinner."</p>
<p>A snorted laugh. "<em>You can't cook even when you're sober</em>."</p>
<p>Edward has never told him to stop. He calls, makes sure Roy's bottles are still locked up in the cabinets before he comes, but apart from that he has never said anything — neither <em>it will kill you</em> nor <em>it's disgusting</em> nor <em>I hate it</em>. Roy knows he hates it but Edward is surprisingly indulgent in so many ways, over so many things. It wouldn't be wrong to say that, to an extent, Edward is just like Maes.</p>
<p>Roy swallows the lump on his throat.</p>
<p>"I concede," he says. "What would you say to going out for dinner?"</p>
<p>Edward hesitates.</p>
<p>"Tomorrow," Roy adds.</p>
<p><em>No</em>, Maes would have said, <em>let's go today.</em></p>
<p>"<em>Yeah</em>." Roy can hear his shrug somehow. "<em>Maybe tomorrow, then.</em>"</p>
<p>After that, he says his goodbyes; Roy almost says <em>I love you</em> and then hangs up feeling as if his night is wasted.</p>
<p>It <em>is</em>. Roy mulls over the words <em>maybe </em>and <em>tomorrow</em> and how they were so perfectly fitting for the occasion, as if Ed has already put two and two together without even seeing the darkening bruise on his cheek. If it was anybody else, Roy would have his suspicions. If it was Maes, Roy would be sure.</p>
<p>He wants to think about it. About how Maes would react. Of how he would have sat on the other end of the couch or stood in the center of the living room, of how he would stay deathly silent or scream to his heart's content. Roy wants to think about the words they would say and the ones they wouldn't, if Maes would stand up and leave or finish what Riza started.</p>
<p>But he doesn't know what he wants in reality — is it compassion or confirmation? </p>
<p>He settles for neither.</p>
<p>His neck is hurting a little bit from the position. His cheek is throbbing now that he doesn't have the ice pack. Both his head and his heart are aching.</p>
<p>The worst of all, is an itch on his left wrist. He frowns and squints at the sight of an ant trotting out from under his cuff to make his skin its new playground. Roy kills it quickly and decides that tomorrow he is going to call the exterminator.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I hope this is okay!<br/>hmu on twitter <a href="https://twitter.com/aluinihi">@aluinihi</a></p></blockquote></div></div>
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